


Setting things straight

by Syntax_Error



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Awkwardness, Confusion, Fluff, Freebatch - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4335176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntax_Error/pseuds/Syntax_Error
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written ages ago, between S2 and S3, it has taken me eons to get this published. It was written purely for my own amusement, I don't pretend to know anything. Obviously.</p><p>Martin and Benedict appear on Graham Norton show, and things get a bit out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Setting things straight

_The first episode of third season of "Sherlock" has just aired. It’s been a great success. Martin and Benedict have agreed to go on Graham Norton show together, the first time in a TV studio together since "Sherlock" aired for the first time. On show they come to talk about working together on set. Benedict, eloquent as ever, admits that he and Martin do argue from time to time._

"But it rarely lasts. Martin is a true sport in that respect. We just kiss and make up."

Martin hears gasps in the crowd. Their eyes meet for a brief second. Ben is startled.

"Whoops!" he blurts out and gives the audience a wide grin. "Obviously not... not...."

That doesn't help. The lights in the studio are bright and the audience is exhilerated. Martin puts a hand to his forhead and tries to get a glimpse of the audience, but he can’t see a fucking thing from the sofa where he is sitting. He can handle the situation, though. He is good at it. Just play along. Have a blast.

"But... uhm... You know, Ben is right" he says.

"I always argue with that bastard on set so there's a hellofalot of kissing and making up going on. We cannot restrain ourselves. It just can't be done!"

The audience is whistling, applauding. Graham Norton turns to the camera.

"Didn’t we all sort of suspect that?"

Ben is uncomfortable. He has that _get me out of here_ \- thing written all over his horse-faced face. He hides it well though, that lanky body self-confident laid back in the studio sofa, left arm stretched out, hand just behind Martins shoulder. He could be mistaken for being cool if you didn't know him.

"Martin always gets the best of me" he says, and Martin can trace that tension in his voice. But no one else seems to notice, especially not now. Sometimes Martin think he is the only one who can read Ben correctly.

"Oh, come on, boys!" Graham Norton says. "We want to _see_ this!"

The audience shifts from cheering to screaming. Ben frowns, with a smile that splits equal between _what the hell_ and _no fucking way_. Martin is a bit giddy from the adrenaline of being in the studio. He knows he sometimes has this awful tendency of not being able to stop himself. It is a dangerous thing being in front of a live camera, with millions and millions watching out there. Live telly can seriously affect your judgement. It’s like being momentarily intoxicated. He knows he is under the influence right now. But this moment is just too fucking good to pass up.

"If you don’t know what a kiss looks like, I feel bloody sorry for you lot!"

His right hand suddenly is on the back of Ben’s neck. The studio is hot from the lights. He leans forward. His face is closing in on Ben, giving him a reassuring glance. Ben is too perplexed to react, Martin can tell. He catches the scent of Ben's shaving water - spicy, rich, sexy. Their lips barely brush but it is enough to make Martins stomach flutter. It is all over in a split second. The high pitched screams from the audiencd are breaking the sound barrier. _Oh my god I'm fainting_ , someone screams in front of them.

When they get backstage, Ben shoves Martin into a corner. The staffs are circulating them trying to pretend they don’t hear or see anything, failing miserably. Martin’s telephone chimes. It’s Mark _: That was rather unexpected, Martin. You just blew up the entire web_.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?!" Ben sneers, trying to avoid all of BBC and the rest of the world to hear him.

"Could you please let me in on it before you decide to come out on national television!"

Martin is rather taken aback by the intensity of his reaction.

"I wasn't _coming out_..."

"No? Then who did? Because I sure as hell wasn't!"

"Come on Ben, relax for fucks sake, I was just taking the piss!"

Ben grips Martins wrist and drags him along the corridor. It’s crowded. They are being eyed out from every corner. Someone giggles.

"Love that kiss!"

Ben gives Martin a wry look. _Now see what you have done!_

He finds a costume wardrobe and pushes Martin inside and closes the door firmly. Glances follow them all the way in. As the giddiness of the adrenaline quickly wears off Martin, an unpleasant feeling sets in instead.

Another chime. Amanda: _I seriously hope Ben was in on that, love._  
  
Martin is hit by a devastating feeling that he has done something inexcusable. Normally Ben is affectionate and has no problems with pranks. But now he pushes Martin further into the wardrobe.

"Don’t fucking push me, you twat!"

"Then don’t you fucking kiss me in front of the whole Commonwealth! You didn't just _take the piss_ , you did that to ridicule me!”

"It was _a joke_ , you bloody loony!"

There is a moment of charged silence between them. Ben changes foot but says nothing. But his eyes are uncertainly seeking Martin’s in the semi-dark closet. It's often like this. Ben seeks Martin's approval after he has said something remotely objectional. Why? Why does this gorgeous man want or even need his approval for anything?

Suddenly it hits Martin. He has to discretely grab one of the racks with clothes to keep from wavering. _Oh my fucking God. Not a joke to Ben_.

He feels a jolt rushing through him. Why is he such a dim witted daft bastard. Ben’s lips, and Martin _knows they are soft_ , are just a little bit open.

"I might not approve of your humor right now, Martin."

One million images are suddenly upon him - what has he said and done the last couple of weeks and months, not to say years, that could have been misinterpreted and painful to Ben? He reaches the inevitable conclusion: a massive amount. But he quickly decides to play along.

"Don't be a fucking bore, Benny Horseface."

He hears himself reveal an urgent need for Ben to forgive him.

On the nick of time he swallows: _You know you love me_. It's on the tip of his tongue but he has enough descensy not to give in to it. Before Norton he would have, without furher thought or consideration that it actually could mean something significant at the recieving end.

Horceface works. Ben can’t hold back. He laughs. A soft chuckle, so very non-Sherlocky. He lets go of Martin’s eyes, looks down and up again, presses his lips together and then - a forgiving, tender and short glance. Martin's heart jumps. He feels his cheeks blushing in excitement and in shame for being such a thoughtless dumass. Shit, fucking shit.

"They’ll be at the entrance" Ben says. "You will have to get us out of here. I am not taking any questions.”

 _Why should you be a subject to questioning, I'm the prick_ , Martin thinks. But he knows why. The speculations are thick on Britains greatest heart throb. Who is right now, with him in this whiffy closet.

"I know another way out", Martin says, still hanging with his eyes on Ben’s soft lips.

"Where’s your car?"

"Below."

"Follow me, Benny boy."

Martin turns and is about to leave when Ben puts a hand on his shoulder. Martin can feel his body heat radiating from behind. Surely due to the studio-adrenaline, nothing else. But then Ben's thumb makes a gentle, caressing movement, up and down on top of his shoulder, an intimate sort of gesture that leaves Martin utterly breathless.

"Marty..." Ben mumbles, almost as if to himself.

Then he pulls him close to his chest and there is an unsteady breath hitting Martin's ear. He can feel Bens chest, belt and thighs through his clothes, it's like they are spooning standing up. Ben puts his left hand over Martins chest. They just stand like that for a full half minute, chest to back, swaying against eachother.  
Martin can hardly breath from anticipation, his heart rate is making it difficult for him not to pant. Ben's right hand is slowly and indulgingly stroking Martins arm. The breath is warm to his ear. Ben's fingers wander down the front of Martin's shirt and reach his bulge. He slowly caresses it, several times, and makes Martin gasp.

"Martin", Ben whispers.

"If it wasn't such an awful joke... I'd say we're both in the closet."

Martin is breathless. He can't even find himself to laugh.

They flee along empty corridors in the BBC building. When they get down to the entrance, they are lucky enough not to be spotted by the vultures through the glass doors as they skulk downstairs into the cellar. The plan is to get to the car park through the culverts of the building. They are leading directly to the parking area reserved for the BBC guests and staff. They pass through the London traffic at a fast pace. Ben knows his way perfectly well through the city. Martin stares out of the window. He is enjoying the thought that nobody knows it’s them. It is peaceful, it's their own universe for some brief minutes. Ben has tuned in a classic music radio station.

Martin can't explain the heat. It’s been like this for a long time, in shifting cycles, worse, better, worse again. It was really bad even before tonight. And it has always been bad enough to make people talk, endlessly. But Martin can’t help it. Sometimes when they act, he can’t say where he ends and Ben begins. It is an experience he hasn’t had with any other actor, ever. It's the magic of the chemistry. It's the knowledge that Ben will react to his whims in the most perfect way you could never imagine - on or off camera.  
This season they have improvised in a way they’ve never done before. Sherlock and John have taken them away and it has just been a miracle. It's like having exquisite champagne shot through your veins. In lack of a better metaphore, Martin likes to think that they are humming a song together, which no one else can hear.  
Not even, and this makes him kind of uncomfortable to think about, not even Amanda. She gets it, _almost_. But she can’t hear those over- and undertones that make their humming so surging. Those tones of _what if_ and _wouldn’t you like to know_ that sometimes is on the verge of driving Martin mad. Like now.  
Except this time, he realises, they are about to cross the line.  
They have already - once, no twice - tonight. This is too dangerous a game. He decides, sitting there listening to Beethoven, he needs to set things straight. Once and for all. This cannot go on. 

Suddenly Ben stirs beside him, looks at him. Their eyes meet.

"You really haven’t got a clue, have you?"

"What?"

"How to kiss a man."

"Ehh..."

"Or were you just particularly lousy this time?"

Ben's question gets to be unanswered. Martin simply can't find a good answer to it, which in itself is a rarity. So they don’t say another word during the entire trip. They pass though the security door of the courtyard of Ben's house.  
The elevator goes all the way up to the penthouse. Martin has been here a couple of times before. It's supposed to be more anonymous than his Hampstead retreat. Ben bought it with his Star Trek-money. It has a panorama view over London skyline. It is modern and minimalistic and stylish with tiled floors, fireplace, and open spaces.The living area is integrated with the kitchen, all sorts of modern stuff. Ben is a bit of a nutter for gadgets. He has them all: wine cooler, ice machine, and espresso machine, a fridge connected to the net. It’s all smooth, cool, chrome and modern. The lights are all dimmed and soft.  
There’s a fire going in the fireplace. It’s gas and it’s on timer, Martin knows. He suddenly feels like fifteen.

"After you, Sassypants", Ben says.

"I’ll just have a beer and then I’ll be off," Martin says, reluctantly, trying not to hear Ben's pretend mocking voice. Ben says nothing. He opens the fridge and throws a blond beer to Martin. He grabs a Guinness himself.

"So… "Martin says when they have taken a sip.

"So." Benedict says.

The black marble of the kitchen counter feels cool and safe against hot skin.

Their telephones chime, together this time. It’s Mark again. _Congratulations, boys. You have stolen the show_ , his text says dryly, and there’s a picture. It’s them on the Graham Norton sofa. Martins face is just touching Ben’s. There’s a headline, splayed all over the website: _Kissing and making up_ , it says. It’s The Daily Mail: _Benedict Cumberbatch tonight confessed in front of an excited audience at Graham Norton show, that he and Martin Freeman now and then actually argue. But they have a special method of getting past their disagreements on Sherlock-set: They just kiss and make up. Martin Freeman willingly demonstrated some of it on the show. We can’t say we’re surprised. Is anyone?_

"I'm sorry Martin," Ben says.

Martin sips his beer. His hands are a bit unsteady, but he can handle it.

"It was my bad, y'know. So don't be sorry."

And then he adds hastily:

"I'm not."

This heat, Martin thinks. This fucking heat. It makes me lose my head.

Ben dwells for a second, then he comes around on Martin’s side of the counter.

"You should be. You can’t go around just doing that to people. It is against the law to be such a lousy kisser, Martin. I think I will have to report you to the police."

There is something catlike about him, that slim body and those long arms.

"I hardly touched you" Martins says vaguely.

Ben comes up to him just an inch too close. Martin feels his crotch again and it is too much of it in one evening.

"Exactely, Martin. You didn't". That uncertain glance is there again but Martin has no interest in stopping him.

Ben is right. Kissing a man is not anything like kissing a woman. Most women are used to being somewhat passive. And to most men there’s always this question: _Too eager?_ But this… It is a natural force. No risk, none at all, of being too eager. When Ben's tongue slides across Martin's upper lip as a command to let him in, the surge is like nothing he ever experienced. It is like a floodgate opening. All those looks, harmless and not so harmless flirting, the touching. The holding. The hugging. The innuendoes from others. _Fuck off we’re just best mates_. Best friends with benefits. Yeah, that’s what it is. His brain is all of a sudden filled with all kind of filthy images, filthy and mad, Ben on a sofa, him on top, them moving, sweating. Biting.

The kiss deepens and hardens with fully open mouths and Ben presses him against the counter so hard it cuts into his back. Martin has his arm firmly wrapped around Ben's back. The other hand is in Ben's curls, those irresistable wild an beautiful curls thar Ben hates, but Martin is mad about them. Ben presses his thigh against him, rubs it up and down.

"Okay, okay so that's what you want, you fucker you..."

He starts to fumble with Ben’s shirt, but his hands are shaking so badly he can’t control them. He grips and tears. Buttons fall to the floor. They hit the tiles like pearls from a torn necklace, and beneath the shirt, pale skin. Ben’s skin.

"Fuck!" Martin says, embarrassed that he can’t come up with anything more appropriate to say.

Ben is calm. He undoes his cuffs and buttons. He drops the shirt to the floor. His chest is smooth and white and thewy. He starts to undo his trousers. Martin is mesmerised. At the back of his mind he is confused wich adds to his mounting frustration. What the fuck do you do with a man? How the fuck do you do it?

"No, wait, just wait!" Martin exclaims in a fit of fear. He is about to get lost. He is about loose himself helplessly to this man and it will be out there. And it won’t be just a stupid prank on the telly. And his world will come crashing down and his family will be ripped to pieces and the press, and OH THE PRESS will eat them alive, disembowel him and serve the world the juciest piece of trashy story it has ever seen and he will be the villain and they will have his head on a silver platter.... And he absolutely, definitely needs to set things straight.

"Ben, I’m sorry! This is not… I just can’t! I can’t do this. I just. No."

"Martin!”, Ben says, and his voice is a mixture of pleading, desire and dissapointment.

"I can’t."

And he flees, leaves Ben like that, with bare chest and a ripped shirt on the floor.

They never talk about the appartement incident. It is a silent understanding. It is too dangerous when they are working, now filming season four, as comissioned by themselves. They have to maintain some sort of professional status quo. But as they just barely got away with that kiss in the press, the web is all screams and wild guesses on their status. _This is why you can't lose your head on national telly_ , Martin reminds himself. The rumour circus was a problem already before this whole unfortunate incident. Everyone has up until now kept a sort of a “wow they really have great chemistry on screen”. But now it’s all “and we all know why”.  
That is pissing Martin off, especially since he has turned down such a great offer not to be in this situation at all.  
It’s an official secret though on set, that they had some encounter at Ben’s after Norton. However that slipped out is beyond any of them, but these sorts of things have feet. Someone must have seen them sneaking out from the BBC. They are taunted on set. Just for fun, but there are sharp edges of curiosity below the friendly surface.

It’s in between scenes, during a lunch break, that Ben knocks on Martin’s trailer. Martin is having a quick bite to eat. He is having his John-clothes on, and when Ben enters, Martin looks up from his heated lunch. Ben’s coat is swirling when he closes the door, tight.

"Hi", John says. "Have a seat."

Sherlock throws himself on the sofa, staring at Martins meal.

"Any good?"

"Yeah. Want some?"

"Ehm...Nnnn...o"

"What’s the matter?"

Ben gives him one of his own smiles. Soft, friendly.

"Are we having a tiff?"

"A _tiff_?"

"Are we? I don’t want to have a tiff with you, darling. Can’t stand it. I need to know we are okay."

"We can always kiss and make up," Martin says in a half-John fashion. Ben stiffens.

"Oh, for God's sake, Martin! I’ve told you I’m sorry."

Martin chews and swallows and pushes his lunch aside.

"You think that I am pissed off at you because of that kiss."

Ben is stunned because of this unusually straight forward addressing of that disastous evening.

"Yeeees... Something like that..." 

"I’m not. I’m... I’m… That was… "

Martin clears his throat. This is not an easy topic for discussion, in between takes. Soon Mark will be knocking the door. But fuck it, it has to be said.

"It was fucking terrific, that’s what it was."

Ben looks very pleased in a naughty way. Martin just can’t withhold a smile.

"But don’t you expect me to do that again, Ben. I'm setting things straight here, okay?"

"Obviously."

"Don't you fucking mock me, Bennybatch!"

A knock breaks up their conversation. Mark opens up and appears in the doorway. He freezes, like he can feel the tension inside.

"Am I interrupting you, boys?"

"Martin just made it clear he will never kiss me again. Which makes me feel a bit sad, to be honest."

Ben rises, and as he rises, Martin sees him go all stern and cold and very un-Benny-like. Behind his back, Mark smirks at Martin. He knows. He must know, Martin thinks.

Ben leaves the trailer. Martin grabs his black John-jacket, and he feels pleased with himself and is on his way out when Mark stops him.

"Martin, whatever is going on between you two... I don't want to meddle, but I would appreciate if you could find some way of working around it."

"Wha... "

"Martin my dear. I'm not an idiot. Don't you be one."

"You really have such a tactful way of adressing things."

"That was not my primary ambition, but thank you."

"Anyway, no need to worry. I have set things straight."

Mark looks amused.

"So to say."

"Sod off, Mark."

Martin leaves the trailer. He is genuinely really pleased with himself. He will never make this mistake, ever again.

He is almost certain, anyway.


End file.
